Classic poem of the day
O talk not to me of a name great in story;
The days of our youth are the days of our glory;
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.
What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?
'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled:
Then away with all such from the head that is hoary—
What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?
O Fame!—if I e'er took delight in th......
Member poem of the day
In that bathroom, she read the book of Job.
Or it read her, from the first breath she held
as rebel boots trod boards above her head
to sorrow’s exhalation in a sob.
War’s theater, acts of murder ended,
the beads of seven sorrows cool her hands;
she closes family books, understands
(yet opens onto mornings that are void)
why curious visions were debated
till a cursed cockroach grew an angel’s wings.
There’s another who esc......